The No-Maj Path
by AquaEclipse
Summary: One would wonder why America denies the existence of magic. Here is my own input on the matter, based on a headcanon of mine. Subsection AU applies in the form of State OCs. Rated for dark historical events and 'death'. Formerly known as 'The Mundane Path'. (Traditional Chinese translation "莫魔方向" at /s/13030760/1/) Part of DCAU.


_**The Mundane Path**_

 **Hey, y'all. I'm** _ **finally**_ **back to HK to write. However, before we begin, here's a note for you. I saw this on the news (check the 'link' and remove the spaces):**

 _ **www. scmp news/ world/ europe/ article/ 2158560/ watch- huge- and-deadly- fireball- engulfs- italian- highway- after**_

 **A moment of silence to the casualties, lost in the explosion caused by the crash between a tanker and a truck of tomatoes, please.**

 **Poor Ita-sweetie.**

 **Anyway, I wrote this during my late-night plane ride from Kansai to HK. Yes, I chose this over a much-needed nap. You're welcome.**

 **I've been planning this story for a while, and only just got around to writing this. This story is based on a headcanon of mine, mixed with Subsection AU elements.**

 **WARNING: This story covers sort-of dark themes and character 'death'.**

 **DISCLAIMER: The creator of Hetalia is of the Nation of the Sun. I am not. Thus, by logic, I don't own Hetalia. However, I** _ **do**_ **own my OCs and the plot, in a sense.**

 **Note that this fic took place during Colonial!US, so names are** _ **not**_ **up to date. However, the spellings are mostly British. Microsoft Word Autocorrect sucks, but it's all I have. I also tried to do my research and tried to keep the real-info as historically accurate as possible, but I am willing to admit that I took a little artistic license, but THIS IS FANFICTION! YOU CAN'T TELL ME OFF FOR NOT BEING 100% HISTORICAL!  
**

 **After this very long A/N, on with the story!**

* * *

September 1692

He watched from a distance.

He had snuck into his neighbouring brother's territory, having not heard from him in a while. But what he saw totally _didn't_ shake him to the core, because frankly he, Malcolm Brandon Kirkland, the Personification of the Colony of New York, _didn't_ care much, right?

A boy, appearing around the age of four, was surrounded by a large crowd, but he could still see him. He could recognize the boy's blond-brown hair (streaked with dark red) anywhere.

The crowd was standing next to a tree. On a low-hanging branch was a rope. A rope twisted into a noose.

The crowd consisted of all sorts of people. Most of them were men. Some of them were children. He saw one of his former people, Amity Hall. She turned ten that day. But there she stood, with her parents Michael and Prudence, and her siblings Josiah, Noah and Hannah, glaring at the condemned boy as though he were a bit of mold on their bread.

Wait, four-year-old Hannah wasn't glaring. She was looking at the boy, like she was holding back tears.

The boy's name was Hugo Kirkland, or the Personification of the Colony of Massachusetts.

Of course, he did not move from his spot. It is not good to interfere with justice – this is not justice in any logical sense, but Mal did not pride himself in recklessness (a type of bravery which borders on stupidity) or heroism. That's someone else's job. Something bad would definitely happen if he tried to interfere, or even interrupt and/or openly oppose their actions. So all he could do was watch.

A man said something.

A box was kicked.

A rope tightened.

The sobs of an innocent child ceased.

The crowd cheered, for "thou shalt not suffer for a witch to live".

He watched it all in silence, trying to hold back the tsunami of emotions flooding from the back of his mind, but a few involuntary tears escaped his grey eyes.

The crowd dispersed. Most of the people were on the verge of smiling, if not outright grinning in satisfaction. Hannah Hall looked back, not openly showing emotion, unlike the rest of her family, but Mal could tell that she was regretful of not helping an innocent soul. She would grow to flee the Puritan life, to live alongside the Natives, like some of her fellow children. From what Shannon (North Carolina) would tell him later, she would live a happy life with her husband and daughter. He is proud of her for making the right choice.

Hours later, the crowd had disappeared back to their homes, farming and doing what they were supposed to do at home or at work. A blond boy, appearing at some age between eight and ten, darted to the edge of the forest, to the hanging tree. He undid the noose and carried the apparently-dead body of the young boy into the forest. The boy's name was the Thirteen Colonies of British North America. I suppose that you know his current identity.

His brother was in safe hands. And Mal retreated back to his own territory, trying to comprehend what in the name of the Lord just happened.

* * *

He could see the tears, dried by the passing breezes, on the younger boy's unmoving face, his expression of heartbroken realization that yes, his own people had voluntarily betrayed him. The burns the rope left, around the boy's neck, were still visible, not yet faded to fair skin. He could feel the moisture against his cheeks. Why would anyone do such a thing to but a mere child?

Did he want to kill them, destroy them all, for hurting his family? A small part of his vowed for revenge, but he could never bring himself to hate his own people.

They thought that magic was a sign of evil, of the devil's corruption.

He did not hate magic, but it was this so-called magic that caused his little one to fall into the Nation Death Coma. He was too late to save him.

He did not want a repeat of this farce.

He swore to deny magic and its existence and influence.

Because he wanted to protect his little babies.

* * *

At present day, Hugo's rope burns have faded. Yet there were still conspicuous if you look close enough, for they have left scars. His hair has also completely changed to dark red, as opposed to just streaks of it, due to Irish influence.

Mal now has to use a wheelchair to get around. The reason behind it is a story for another day, but spoiler alert: it involves terrorism.

To this day, Alfred still does, about 99% of the year, deny the existence and influence of magic. He lost his ability to see it from that year on. However, exceptions are made and his Sight returns every Mother's Day and Halloween, but that is, too, a story for another day.

* * *

 **A/N: Yeah, if I made you cry, here are the tissues. *gives box of tissues* If you don't mind, please leave reviews and concrit. Flamers will be burnt at the stake by their own flames. Unkind warnings for rulebreaking will be dumped in the nearest landfill ASAP, but I think it will take a while, because I have this blister on my right leg from some just-cooked beef falling onto there a couple of days ago (ouch).**

 **P.S. Help! A certain duo is chasing me because I won't share my cherry tomatoes with 'em! *runs away, chased by said duo***

 **Talons, out! *is tackled by said duo because I am damn slow at sprinting when compared to the others at my age* GET THESE TWO IDIOTS OFF OF ME!**

 _ **Edit: I added a couple more details. :-) #SequelHook**_


End file.
